Three Long Mountains and a Wood
by sienna27
Summary: TV Show Episode Title Challenge - Prompt Set #11 - Title Challenge: High Risk Behavior -- Emily's been acting strangely. Nobody knows what's wrong, and then Hotch sees her dressed provocatively and follows her to a bar. Unrelated to my regular worlds
1. Disquiet

**Author's Note**: New story, just a couple of chapters. Snapshot of them in a different world, but beyond that, for now I'm going to leave you in the dark as much as Hotch is at the moment. I will say it's darker in theme but that will become obvious to you about the same point that Arcadya said "oh . . . the fun went away with that image."

This sort of runs off late season 4 canon. Pre-pig farm/Foyette of course. I guess that's going to have to be a rule for everything now, huh?

I'm not much into poetry but the opening excerpt is from my favorite poem by my favorite poet, Edna St. Vincent Millay. The poem itself is epically long, and highly recommended even if you aren't into poetry. I'll coincidentally be using another stanza from it in a _Girl_ chapter in a few weeks.

* * *

**Prompt Set #11**

Show: Dawson's Creek

Title Challenge: High Risk Behavior

* * *

_ALL I could see from where I stood  
Was three long mountains and a wood;  
I turned and looked the other way,  
And saw three islands in a bay.  
So with my eyes I traced the line  
Of the horizon, thin and fine,  
Straight around till I was come  
Back to where I'd started from;  
And all I saw from where I stood  
Was three long mountains and a wood.  
Over these things I could not see:  
These were the things that bounded me;_

_-- Renascence, Edna St. Vincent Millay (1912)_

* * *

**Disquiet**

Hotch stood in his office looking through his blinds down to the bullpen.

It was late on a Friday night and he was only working late because Haley had taken Jack to her mother's. Everyone else had gone home. Or at least he thought that they had gone home. But now he was looking down at a woman that had left hours ago, and now she was back.

Emily.

He could see her rifling through her desk in frustration, apparently looking for something. It wasn't the fact that she was back in the office that had resulted in him being transfixed at the window.

No . . . it was what she was wearing.

The last time he'd seen Emily she'd had on a black suit and a light blue button down blouse. It was her usual conservative, professional attire that matched his, usual conservative, professional attire.

But now . . . his jaw twitched . . . she was not dressed like herself.

Not at all.

She had on a black leather mini-skirt, a skimpy red tank top and thigh high leather boots that matched the skirt. He could also see through the blinds that she had changed her makeup.

He didn't like it.

Her lipstick was too red, her eyeliner too thick. The shadow was dark. Usually she was classically elegant, now she just looked . . . whorish.

It was an unkind word but it was the first one that came to him.

Actually, if he didn't know better he'd think that she was working undercover as a prostitute. But he was her boss, her only boss, and he most definitely had _not_ given her an order to dress like that.

He wasn't sure if he even had it in him to give her an order to dress like that.

Most men might find her outfit alluring. But to him . . . and it pained him to even think this . . . she just looked like the before photos in half of their case files. The picture taken six months or a year before her decomposing body was found gutted in a ditch by the side of the road.

That was clearly _not_ an image that he wanted to have associated with someone that he cared about.

Someone . . . his heart clenched . . . who had been pulling away from him these past few weeks. Not that he and Emily were involved romantically, but they'd become close. Very close.

Or at least they had been.

Now he didn't know what was going on with her. She'd stopped talking to him.

One day about three weeks ago she'd come in looking very subdued. It was obvious to him in the briefing that there was something bothering her. But when he'd asked her about it she'd just shaken her head and said she was fine.

But her words were flat . . . he'd begun to worry.

The harder he tried to reach her though, the further she slipped away. She was no longer interested in taking breaks with him. Or getting lunch.

Or doing anything.

When he partnered them up she just sat silently in the car, refusing to engage in more than professional discussion. And even that was very succinct and clinical. None of her usual light hearted banter. None of her usual Emily'esqe observations that he'd come to enjoy so much.

She just wasn't herself anymore and he didn't know what to do.

Her work was still exemplary so he didn't even have an excuse to order her to tell him what was wrong.

There was no rule that said that she had to be sociable.

Everyone had noticed the change in her behavior, but she wasn't talking to anyone on the team. And given that she and Hotch had started to spend the most time together, the rest of them just left it in his hands.

Trusting that he would figure out what was going on with her and that he would fix it.

But unfortunately he still didn't have the first clue about what was going with her. So he didn't know how to fix it. He didn't know how to help her.

And he couldn't figure out how to get her to confide in him again.

She had started doing that about six months ago. Confiding in him. Telling him her secrets, her nightmares. It made him feel special, that she needed him. That she trusted him that way.

But now she wouldn't tell him anything.

And the longer that went on, the more convinced he was that her problem was serious. If she was just a little down, or depressed about something . . . maybe a fight with her mother . . . then things would have started to turn around by now.

But they hadn't. And now here she was dressed up in this outfit. This terrible outfit.

And he was scared shitless at the scenarios now running through his head. This wasn't like her. It wasn't like her at all.

It was like seeing an alternate universe Emily.

He knew that she'd had some rough years when she was a kid . . . they'd talked about the problems she'd had in high school . . . but these days Emily was about as straight laced as they came. Granted, she wasn't quite as uptight as he was, but they'd spent enough time talking over the past three years for him to know that she definitely had a pretty conservative bent. The suits weren't just for work. Recently they'd started spending more time together off duty so he knew what her casual clothes looked like too. And over the years he'd seen her dressed up for dates and for nights out clubbing with Morgan and Garcia. And no matter the occasion, he'd never seen her wear anything like she was wearing now.

She'd told him once that the acting out when she was a kid was just a rebellion against her mother. But she'd discovered that the older she got, the more the two of them had in common.

He could see that. But as he watched Emily slam the desk draw shut in frustration, he knew that the Ambassador didn't have anything approaching the outfit her daughter was sporting at the moment.

After Emily slammed the drawer she turned and rushed back out of the bullpen as quickly as she'd run in a few minutes before.

Apparently she hadn't found what she was looking for.

It took him only a moment to decide to follow her. Whatever was going on with her, that outfit tonight scared him too much to just let her go. He'd waited long enough for her to come to him.

It was time to be proactive.

So he grabbed his laptop, hit the lights, and ran out the glass doors less than a minute after Emily did.

The elevator doors were just sliding shut as he pounded into the corridor so he made a beeline for the stairs.

If he'd caught up with her at the elevator then he would have just pretended that he was on his way out too. This way at least they wouldn't have the uncomfortable ride down in the small metal box.

Because there was no way he would have been able to let that outfit go without comment.

He knew exactly where she parked . . . three spots down from him . . . so he just ran down the seven flights, banging through the fire door onto the second level of the parking garage.

But to his surprise . . . he looked around breathlessly . . . her car wasn't there.

He knew that there was no way that she could have gotten down here that quickly and already driven out. Therefore he deduced that she must have gotten a ride, or maybe cabbed it from wherever she was before she came back to the office.

Okay . . . he jumped into his own car . . . that meant she was on foot for a few more minutes. If she was meeting somebody outside he could still catch up with her.

He sped out and circled down to the exit. And sure enough, as he slowly drove down the last ramp he saw her in the glow of the streetlight. She was walking up to a cab already sitting outside by the gate.

Slowing even further, he waited until the cab had gone through the first intersection before he even exited the Academy lot. Though he doubted that she'd be looking for a tail, their training was ingrained. They saw things that they weren't even looking for.

And tonight he didn't want her seeing him.

Not yet anyway. If she spotted him now she'd stop the cab, give him an earful and then disappear into the night again. He just wanted to see where she was going, to make sure that she wasn't doing anything foolish.

Or dangerous.

Yeah . . . he swallowed . . . picturing that slash of red lipstick he was very worried about dangerous.

So he followed her cab from four or five car lengths back. The tail became easier the closer they got to The District. Actually when they got to the Beltway it was no longer necessary for him to even pretend to take evasive maneuvers to keep her from noticing him. The cabby was constantly weaving through traffic, always trying to get a little farther ahead. But the lanes always evened out eventually so Hotch just stayed to the right until the cab picked an exit into town.

As they cut through Dupont Circle and continued over towards U Street, Hotch realized where Emily was probably going.

The Black Cat.

She'd mentioned that sometimes she liked to go there to hear the bands. And as expected, they turned onto 14th street and that's exactly where she got out.

Hotch stopped a block away, watching her enter the club. And then he began to debate his next steps.

He'd started to feel guilty about following her. Though he knew that he was doing this for her, it still felt creepy. Following a woman . . . a friend . . . without her knowledge or consent, that didn't sit well.

It didn't sit well at all.

And without a doubt he knew that if Emily caught him right now, that she would be pissed. He was trying so hard to reach her.

To get things back to the way they used to be.

And he had no idea how much damage his actions tonight might cause their relationship. If she saw his behavior as an unforgivable violation of her trust, then it was possible that the harm he was doing was irreparable.

That thought pained him grievously.

It was the realization that not only their personal, but also their professional relationship might be ruined that made his decision for him. He might lose her completely.

And he couldn't let that happen.

But just as he was about to turn and leave, he again pictured that slash of lipstick. And then the slutty outfit. And finally the obvious depression that she'd been suffering these past few weeks. With all of those warning signs flashing in neon, how could he just drive away?

He couldn't.

So he was going to have risk the potential fallout of all of this blowing up in his face. But that didn't have to happen. Not if he was really careful. It was a Friday night so it should be crowded enough in there that he could stay out of sight.

With his decision now reluctantly made to follow her inside, he pulled a little further up the block and parked. Of course there was no legal street parking available at this time of night so he just took out his FBI placard and placed it in the window.

As long as he wasn't blocking a hydrant he saw nothing wrong with that action. Though this wasn't official business, it certainly wasn't a pleasure outing either.

Just as he was about to slam his door shut he realized that he'd be rather conspicuous going in there in his suit. Especially if Emily's tank top and mini skirt were acceptable attire.

So he slipped off his tie and jacket, tossing them back into the car. Realizing that his sig was now exposed, he put that in the lock box under the seat. He still had the Glock on his ankle if for some reason he didn't want to fathom, Emily got into serious trouble in there.

A chill went down his spine at the thought of something bad enough happening that he might need his gun. And even though he had no real basis for his fear, the thought made him nervous enough that he jogged across the street to get her back into his sight again.

As he hurried up the sidewalk he mussed his hair slightly, undid the top button of his shirt, and rolled up his sleeves.

There . . . he gave himself a mental once over . . . now he should blend in a little better.

He only had to wait a moment in line, and as he was paying the cover he saw the sign advertising the band.

Violent Femmes.

They were Emily's favorite band when she was in high school.

His face softened as he realized that was one of a thousand things that he knew about her. They'd spent so many hours together on car trips and plane rides and stakeouts that he knew everything from her shoe size (seven) to her favorite dessert (mocha cheesecake) to how old she was when she lost her virginity (15). But the disclosure of that last one was an accident and she'd been absolutely mortified when she realized it had slipped out.

And he'd felt so badly for her that he'd ended up offering up his own number (16) just so they'd be even again. After he said it she was quiet for a moment, and then she'd looked up and given him a little smile as she squeezed his hand.

It was as her soft fingers touched his skin that he'd realized how deep their friendship had become. That was personal information. Not the kind of thing he discussed with anyone really. But he'd told her just so that she'd feel better.

There were very few people he cared that much about.

As that memory came back to him, the pain in his heart told him how much he'd been missing her recently. He didn't have many close friends. Emily and Dave were the two he saw every day, spoke to all the time. And really, Emily was, for reasons he hadn't previously examined, fast outstripping Dave in status and level of affection.

But now she'd pulled away, she wouldn't talk to him anymore. And that had left a hole in his gut.

He just wanted her back.

And he so badly wanted her to smile again.

She hadn't smiled in weeks. Emily not smiling was like the sun not coming out. Basically the more depressed she was, the more depressed _he_ was. And he wasn't exactly a cheery soul on his best day.

If he didn't figure out what was wrong with her soon God knows what was going to happen to the two of them.

He moved further into the club, keeping his head down as he surreptitiously scanned the crowd. The air was hot and the place was packed, but he knew that she was in here somewhere.

Finally he spotted her down at the end of the main bar.

He stopped short . . . she was doing shots. She was doing shots all by herself.

She had three lined up in front of her and he watched through the crowd as she tossed them back one by one.

It looked like whiskey.

The sight twisted his heart. Why would she be drinking like that? Emily wasn't a drinker. She sometimes had wine with dinner. Or a glass of Jameson's if she had a bad day.

And one rainy stakeout she sheepishly admitted that when she was depressed she bought a bottle of cheap wine, ordered Chinese and watched sad movies until she'd made herself cry. And even though the tears were manipulated, she said it made her feel better.

He'd been so touched that she'd told him about that part of her life . . . how she coped . . . that he'd reached over and touched the back of her hand. But just as he'd opened his mouth to tell her that sometimes he had to pull out Jack's baby books just to get through the week . . . the radio had crackled and Morgan was telling them that their suspect was on his way to their location.

The moment was lost.

He'd pulled his hand back as he answered Derek, and then he and Emily had both smoothly gone into professional mode.

But he'd always regretted never going back, never trying to recreate that moment.

It felt like possibilities were there . . . if only he'd allow himself to push back the curtain and see them.

Now . . . he watched, his tension rising as a much younger man sidled up beside Emily . . . he feared that he'd never get that moment back again.

His jaw began to clench as he saw the kid put his hand on her hip. But she didn't push him away. No, instead she flashed him a bright smile.

For weeks Hotch had been waiting for her to smile again, but this smile had a hint of desperation.

Like she was trying so hard to be happy that she'd painted on the smile as crudely as she'd painted on the makeup.

And that projection of false . . . pathetic . . . cheer just caused him pain. But not as much pain as watching the kid leading her out to the dance floor.

And then he cringed as she began to rub against this man that she'd just met.

His stomach turned.

What was she thinking? She was here by herself. Or at least she thought she was here by herself. What was she going to do if this creep followed her out?

Then he saw the punk put his hand on her ass and Hotch's blood began to boil. But his anger was divided. At her for allowing that to happen, at the asshole for feeling her up, and at himself for standing there and watching it.

_What the HELL was he doing here!_

No matter how good his intentions, it was wrong to be spying on her like this. If she wanted to get drunk and blow off steam with strangers in a club, then who the hell was he to judge?

Christ, that's what everyone here was doing.

And just about every woman on the dance floor was allowing herself to be felt up by a man they'd just met. So why was he holding Emily to a different standard?

Why was it bothering him so much that she was just acting like any other single woman out on a Friday night?

And then he saw the man with his hand on her ass try to shove his tongue down her throat . . . and Hotch bit cleanly through his lip.

Emily smoothly handled the situation as she turned her head away. But as he felt the coppery taste on his tongue, Hotch knew then why he was holding her to a different standard than those other women.

She was his.

If not declared, then at least understood. That's why the team had backed off and let him handle this. That's why it hurt so much that she'd pulled away from him.

He was falling in love with her.

That was the last thing he expected, and he sure as hell didn't have time to give that any further consideration at the moment. Because as much as he knew that it was wrong . . . even more so now given his realization about his feelings . . . he still couldn't get himself to leave.

Because he cared about her.

Perhaps he cared about her too much, but that wasn't the point. That wasn't the reason he needed to stay. He needed to stay because he had a bad feeling.

And he needed to remember that was why he'd followed Emily here initially.

She wasn't acting like herself. And he was so afraid that if he left her alone now . . . behaving the way that she was . . . that she'd do something really stupid, or just plain reckless.

And then something terrible would happen . . . something like those after photos in his head . . . and he'd never forgive himself for having left her alone.

So, pushing aside his jealousy at seeing her with other men, and the creepy feelings he had about watching her, he set up camp at the other end of the bar.

Even if he was doing something wrong, he was doing it for the right reasons. And that was going to have to be enough for his conscience to live with his actions tonight.

Over the next few hours he nursed two beers, repelled a half dozen women who tried to pick him up, and watched Emily from afar. Watched as she danced with four more guys. All younger than him. All handsome and cocky and slick.

He hated every one of them. Hated them on principle.

Just for touching her.

But the only one that set off any warning bells was guy number two. There was something about him, something _specific_ that he didn't like. And he had a feeling that Emily, even with whatever else was going on in her head, didn't like either.

She pushed him off more quickly than any of the others.

And though the guy did walk away, he didn't seem to care for her rejection.

Hotch kept half an eye on him for a little while but then he lost him in the crowd. He seemed to have moved on to another pretty brunette. So Hotch turned his full attention back to his own pretty brunette.

Given the string of strange men she was dancing with, Hotch was incredibly relieved that Emily had stopped drinking after the three shots. Maybe she just wanted to loosen up when she got here. But he'd been paying close attention and she'd definitely turned down every drink that a man tried to shove into her hand.

Good girl.

At least she was still being responsible on that front.

As Hotch watched her leave her current dance partner to head down the back hallway, his nerves jumped a notch. He knew the bathrooms were back there. And he knew that there were probably other women in the ladies room, but he still didn't like her out of his sight.

So even though he was seriously risking the chances of her seeing him, he decided to follow her.

Unfortunately the crowd on the dance floor was thick . . . and drunk . . . and pushing through them took longer than he'd expected.

When he finally broke out of the stifling air into the semi coolness of the back area, his nerves were rubbed raw. He no longer cared if she saw him. His bad feeling had come roaring back again.

It was the same feeling that he had outside when the chill went down his spine. Now he was ready to drag her out of there if he had to.

He just wanted her gone from this place.

There were three women waiting by the ladies room door. Ignoring their protests, Hotch checked the shoes in the stalls.

No leather boots.

SHIT!

He ran back into the hall . . . God, why did he let her out of his SIGHT!

His heart racing, he spun around in a circle trying to figure out where else she could be. There was an outside exit but he could see that it had an alarm on it.

Okay, so where . . . and then it suddenly came to him.

THE MEN'S ROOM!

She hadn't wanted to wait so she'd gone to the men's room instead. That was something Emily would do. That was something Emily had _done_. She'd made him watch the door for her more than once when they'd been on the road.

But as he looked around he saw the men's room wasn't anywhere near the ladies room.

That wasn't unusual in nightclubs and bars. They just fit in the facilities where the pipes ran. But as he circled back to the entrance of the main hallway he'd just come down, he was starting to get agitated again. And that's when he saw the men's room sign with an arrow.

It was around another turn.

He hurried back down the hall and turned the corner, sighing in relief when he saw the other bathroom at the end of the narrow corridor.

Okay . . . forcing himself to walk at a normal pace, he started down the hall . . . she had to be in there. He'd get her out, apologize for following her and the whole host of other violations of her trust, and then he'd tell her that they were leaving. If she refused, well . . . his brow wrinkled . . . he'd toss her over his shoulder if he had to. And if anyone tried to stop him he'd pull out his badge and say that she was his pregnant wife. That would work.

Yeah, it would be sleazy as hell . . . but it would work.

Bottom line, there was _no_ way he was leaving her here alone, not now. Not if he was freaking out just because she'd been out of his sight for four minutes. All she was doing was going to the bathroom and he was having a panic attack.

As he got closer to the men's room door he started to hear raised voices . . . and then a noise.

A familiar noise. One that made the hair on his arms stand on end.

OH SHIT!

He took off running, slamming his shoulder into the solid wood.

It was locked.

Just as he pulled back to kick it in . . . he heard Emily scream.

* * *

_A/N 2: So I wasn't planning on making this a cliff hangery type story. But as the bar scene continues on, the situation gets more complicated and it's taking more time to clean up that section. So, I figured given this was a really good place for a cut anyway, might as well go with it._

_The idea for this mostly came from the prompt. I was going over my list looking for new ones and I read the words and immediately pictured Emily in that outfit. But also, though, it sort of comes back around to Mirror, Mirror. In that story she pulls away from Morgan and in this one, I had her pull away from Hotch. Totally different circumstances but that was also a thought in my head as this one started spinning together._

_This isn't an epic story, and going with my rule that nothing new can go up until I've sketched it out to the end, I can tell you, barring me cutting a chapter again just for dramatic purposes, I'm just planning a two shot with an epilogue. And I think I'll get the latter half up this weekend. _

_I took some major liberties with The Black Cat. Basically it looks nothing like how I said it does. But I wanted to send them somewhere that I could see Emily going. _

_Lastly, I've been in a fairly comatose state all weekend. Some stupid pseudo bug that's sucking the life out of me. SO, I bring this up only because I have like literally two dozen reviews to respond to for my last few story postings. I believe even going back to Mirror, which was more than a week ago. So I send out my thanks to everyone who has taken the time to review, and I'll hopefully be getting back to all of you over the next few days :)_

_Feedback folks, it's the fuel for the muse!_


	2. Progression

**Author's Note**: Wow! You guys are amazing, I've never had this much of an immediate response to a new story. Apparently that opening chapter struck a nerve. If I haven't dropped you a thank you yet, please know it's coming :) And you should know, the incredible response it the only reason I even got this up today. I had three different stories with chapters nearly finished and I decided to focus on this one because I knew I had so many people clamoring for an update :)

Even when I actually get these damn stories sketched out to the end before I start posting, they still end up going off on their own on the final draft. Basically this got a little longer as I was polishing. Plus overall the emotional arc has always been a bit complicated. So the story is now going to be _three_ parts, plus the epilogue. But given that I don't have anywhere else to send them, I don't see it getting any longer than that :) I know if nothing else, this will at least make immananthropologist happy because she was sad this world was wrapping in only two chapters.

As to what transpires in the bathroom, some of you might have been expecting it to go another way. But hopefully it will be clear as they go along why I did what I did. But I'll explain at the end why I handled it that way.

* * *

**Progression**

The guy crouching over her . . . Hotch immediately flashed on his face . . . creepy dance partner number two . . . didn't even have a chance to do more than turn his head before Hotch had slammed it into the plaster wall behind him.

Once . . . twice . . . three times just for good measure.

When Hotch dropped him to the ground, he could see there was blood pouring out of the guy's nose.

Broken.

As he fell, Hotch also could also see fresh fingernail gouges on his cheek and around his eyes.

Those had clearly been left by Emily. And that meant that he'd been too close for her to react with any of her professional training.

That was pure instinct.

Already in a rage, Hotch's anger turned white hot at seeing those marks. And he was about to drop down and beat the fucker into a bloody pulp, when his rational brain stepped up and took control.

It reminded him that there would be time for that in a moment. But first he had to make sure that Emily was okay.

So after he did a quick pat down of the dazed, soon to be dead man on the floor . . . he pulled a switchblade from his pocket . . . Hotch turned back to see Emily pushing herself up off the dirty tile.

Her cheek and eye were swelling, and there was a thin stream of blood running down her face.

The fucker had hit her.

That was the sound Hotch had heard. The one that drove his panic as he ran for the door. It was the familiar 'thwack' of a closed fist connecting with a woman's face.

He'd certainly heard it enough times growing up.

Shoving the knife into his pocket, he hurried over to her. As he put one hand out to steady her arm, he reached up with the other to gently touch her cheek.

"Are you okay?"

His tone was soft as his fingertips glided over her skin. Though she had blood running from the corner of her mouth, and a cut over her eye, it didn't look like anything was broken.

The guy who left these marks was not going to be able to say the same thing when he looked in the mirror tomorrow.

Emily's own hand came up to touch her face, wincing as she actually palpated the spot where she'd been struck the hardest.

Her eye socket seemed to be intact, and given the blinding white pain of a moment ago, that was the thing she'd been most worried about. So with her gaze still on the floor she answered Hotch with a slow nod, "I think so."

She was still feeling a bit dizzy though . . . she swallowed . . . and nauseous.

Hotch stared at her . . . but she wasn't looking at him. His stomach began to sink . . . why wasn't she looking at him?

He'd thought that he'd gotten to her quickly enough. But he really didn't know what had happened before he came through the door. And the longer she looked away, the more terrified he was that he was too late.

So he had to ask the other question . . . though he wasn't sure if he was prepared for her answer.

He had to swallow twice before the words would come out. But finally he managed to whisper, "Emily . . . did he . . .?"

As many thousands of conversations he'd had with victims of assault, this one was the hardest. Because in this moment . . . with her . . . he couldn't even finish the sentence.

Emily's eyes slowly came up to meet his. He could see the pain and the anger and the humiliation all mixing together. For a moment he thought the answer was yes.

And for that split second, he saw nothing in his mind but the blood that he was about to spill on the floor.

His fingers had started to curl into fists . . . when to his undying relief . . . she shook her head.

"No," her jaw twitched, "no he didn't touch me. Not like that."

Her gaze shifted away from his again, this time in embarrassment, "I wasn't paying attention, I didn't realize he'd followed me," she scoffed in disgust, "Christ, I didn't even know anybody else was in the bathroom with me . . . not until he grabbed me when I came out of the stall," she shook her head, "it all happened so quickly. And he was too close to pull back for a punch so I went for his eyes," she looked down at the blood and tissue under her fingernails, "and that was when he hit me."

Pausing for a moment, she winced at the memory of the attack, "he hit me hard," her hand ghosted over her cheek again, "closed fist. I was so stunned that for a second I thought I was going to pass out. And that's when he got the drop and pushed me down," her voice faded, "if you hadn't come in when you did."

If he hadn't come in when he did, she probably would have made a police blotter tonight.

Hotch's expression softened and he spontaneously pulled her into a hug as he whispered, "thank God," before he kissed the top of her head.

Before her mind had a chance to process the kiss, his presence . . . or really anything else that had just happened . . . he'd stepped back. With a hand on the small of her back he guided her over to the sink and steadied her against the vanity, "I need you to stay over here for one second Emily," his gaze hardened as his eyes ran over the marks on her body.

"I'll be right back."

And then he turned back to the man who had attacked her.

His hands curled into fists as he saw the fucker was starting to push himself up off the tile floor. Hotch made his feelings clear on that move with a kick to the ribs.

Even in his rage he remembered to kick down low and on the left side. The crunch was satisfying.

But not as much as the scream that came with it.

As the asshole twisted to the side, Hotch dropped down on top of him. He pinned his body with one hand as he pounded his other fist repeatedly into what he now knew was broken bone.

Her assailant yelped in agony like a wounded animal.

And in Hotch's mind the sound was juxtaposed against the one he'd heard Emily make just before he'd come through the door.

His temper . . . already raging . . . turned another notch up the dial.

If he hadn't been here then she could have been raped by this fucking . . . piece . . . of . . . shit!

Each word in his head was punctuated by another pounding of his fist.

Seeing the fucker was about to pass out from the pain, Hotch stopped with the body slamming and needlessly smashed his fist into the already broken nose.

He'd need surgery to put that back together.

Now panting and bloodied himself, Hotch pushed himself off the floor and stood there looking down at what he'd done.

Often he worried that all of the time he spent chasing monsters, that one of these days he would turn into one himself. Right now he wasn't sure how close he'd come to that line.

To that point of no return.

But he did know that he didn't regret his actions. And he knew that he would do it again in a heartbeat, because this was for her. This was because he'd hurt her.

And that would not be tolerated.

The figure at his feet . . . the handsome man who had been charming women on the dance floor . . . was now a bloody, broken mess. Hotch had taken out his nose and Emily had taken out his eyes. And he was now curled on his side wheezing through his mouth like an emphysema patient.

_Good enough._

Hotch's jaw clenched as he turned away from the mess on the floor. And then his eyes snapped over to Emily's.

She was just watching him.

After everything that had just happened . . . after all of the violence she had just seen him inflict on another human being . . . the only expression he saw on her face was confusion.

"How did you know that I was here?"

Not that she wasn't incredibly grateful for his appearance, or for what he'd just done to that asshole. As soon as she'd seen the pounding begin, she'd locked the door before anyone else entered the bathroom.

But now that the moment was over, she couldn't for the life of her figure out how Hotch happened to come flying through the door seconds after she screamed.

For the moment, both her humiliation over what had happened, and even her God awful, mind numbing depression, had been temporarily pushed aside. Now all she was filled with was utter bewilderment.

At the exact moment she was dazed and bleeding on the floor, feeling that those horrible fingers moving up her thigh, she'd actually screamed in her head.

_'**HOTCH I NEED YOU!' **_

He was her partner. These past few weeks of distance notwithstanding . . . her closest friend in the world.

It was ingrained for both professional and personal reasons to call out for him when she was in trouble.

And here he was. She'd cried out for him and here he was . . . even though she'd left him back in Quantico hours ago.

'_How was that possible?'_

His eyes shifted away for a moment before he looked back over guiltily, "I followed you," as her brow darkened he hastened to add the needed apology, "I know. I'm sorry. It was wrong. Though . . ." he looked back to the lump on the floor, "in retrospect it was the right move."

Thank God he'd listened to his instincts and not gone home and left her here alone.

But as he looked back over at her, his only hope was that what had happened just now had mitigated her anger. Because if she was as upset he'd earlier feared that she could be, this might be the end of things between them.

That loss wasn't something he could even contemplate.

So he quickly closed the distance between them, standing in front of her as he pleaded, "please don't be mad Emily. I was just worried about you. I didn't," his emotions started to rise up and he cleared his throat, "well, you won't talk to me anymore. And I know that something's wrong," he reached over and slid his hand down her arm as his voice got husky, "when I saw you come into the office dressed like this I didn't know what else to do. I was afraid you were slipping too far away from me to get you back."

Emily's initial anger over his actions had faded almost instantly. Comparing what he'd done wrong with he'd done right, well, there was no contest.

As strong and capable as she believed herself to be . . . as she _knew_ herself to be . . . she wasn't entirely sure that she would have been able to fight that assault off on her own.

But beyond that, there was also the look on Hotch's face. The emotion in his voice.

He was baring his soul to her.

And he wanted to help her. And she wished so badly that he could. But this wasn't something that he could fix for her.

Her face crumpled as her underlying pain came roaring back . . . nobody could fix this for her.

When she opened her mouth, her voice cracked, "I want to go home," she bit her lip as a sob tried to escape, "please take me home."

She was about to start bawling, and she did _not_ want to do that in the men's room.

His face softened as squeezed her hand, "of course, of course I'll take you home. But first . . ." taking a breath, he turned her around so that she was facing the mirror, "we need to clean up a little."

He wasn't sure if she was ready to tell him her secret, but just her willingness to let him take her home was progress. And as much as he wanted to just run out the door with her now, neither of them could walk out of the club looking the way they did.

She had her own blood on her face and her shirt, and her attacker's blood on her hands. And Hotch . . . he looked down at himself . . . his hands were a mess and he had red splatters on his shirt too.

But the club was dark, hopefully once they washed up the little bit of blood on their clothes wouldn't be noticed.

The asshole on the floor was still breathing, and that was the extent of Hotch's concern for his well being. Though he definitely didn't wish to be involved in any discussions as to how he got into the state that he did.

That would lead to discussions about Emily's actions tonight.

Not that she'd done anything wrong. But Emily was a beautiful woman, and Hotch knew that she'd been noticed. If the two of them were pulled into a police investigation there would be witnesses that would say they saw her dancing earlier with her assailant. And the bartender would say that she was drinking shots and flirting with a half dozen strange men.

Not to mention the outfit she was wearing.

Any opportunity to blame the victim. To say that she was asking for it.

A 'he said she said' would ensue about what had transpired in the bathroom. Whether Emily had been clear . . . after her earlier flirting . . . that she wasn't interested in going any further.

If Hotch had misinterpreted what was happening when he came in on them.

Or even worse, the presumption that Emily HAD been interested and had only lied about it when Hotch arrived so that she could save her reputation in front of her boss.

Over his years working in the criminal justice system Hotch seen every nauseating variation from the defense that it was the woman's fault. That she'd wanted to be pinned down on a urine stained floor as she was raped by a stranger, that she wanted to have her face bashed in, her arm broken, lit cigarettes burned into her breasts.

Criminal defense lawyers deserved their own special section of hell.

And Hotch was not about to let Emily put up with even a moment of that kind of bullshit harassment and humiliation.

So though he was a sworn officer of the law, in this instance he had no intention of filing any reports. If they brought charges, with all of the alcohol and flirting muddying up the waters, most likely the asshole would just get a slap on the wrist.

Not to mention the possibility of a cross complaint against him and Emily. No, no tonight he preferred poetic justice rather than criminal.

But as he looked down to his scraped, bloody knuckles and . . . he cringed as he turned to her . . . the bruises forming on Emily's face and shoulders, he knew that it was possible somebody might notice them as they were leaving.

They were going to have to hurry.

Emily winced at she looked in the mirror . . . great.

Just . . . FUCKING . . . great!

She started washing the blood off of her hands . . . like she needed this now on top of everything else. She wasn't going to be able to hide all of this on Monday. People were going to ask questions.

How was she supposed to explain these marks on her face?

'_Oh God! Monday she had to go back to the . . .'_

She shook her head . . . it didn't matter. What was done was done. She'd just have to try and cover the marks with makeup.

As Emily dried her hands she looked over at Hotch wetting a soapy paper towel.

At least he wouldn't be asking any questions. He was always the one she was most worried about.

What _he_ thought of her. And God knows right now he must think that she's a complete fool.

And why wouldn't he?

She'd been so stupid tonight. Not only was she out by herself without her gun . . . though she wasn't sure if Hotch realized that yet . . . but she'd gone to the men's room alone. Alone.

What an idiot.

And that was _after _she'd lost track of that asshole she'd been dancing with earlier. He'd given her the creeps, she'd known that there was something wrong with him, and _still_ she'd gone off by herself.

If she'd been paying attention like she should have been then she would have known that he was following her.

God . . . she swallowed . . . she was so lucky that Hotch had come along when he did.

As though he could hear her thoughts . . . that she was thinking about him . . . Hotch put his hand on her jaw. A second later he reached up and began gently wiping the sticky blood from her cheek.

Though she could have done it herself, she didn't mind that he was taking care of her. Under any other circumstances, it would actually be kind of nice.

Her eyes burned . . . but these were pretty shitty circumstances.

God, what was he going to say when she told him why she'd been out alone tonight? Because she knew that there was no way that he was going to let this one go. He'd been patient with her these past few weeks, but him following her to the club said volumes about how desperate he was becoming for answers.

But . . . the tears pooled . . . she still didn't know what words to use.

Seeing Emily's eyes watering, Hotch immediately stopped what he was doing. And as he pulled his hand back he asked worriedly, "am I hurting you?"

She shook her head slowly, "no . . . no, it's okay. I've just . . ." she bit her lip as her eyes dropped, "I've just had a bad day."

What a silly thing to say. She'd been smacked around and ended bleeding on a dirty men's room floor. Possibly minutes away from becoming a vic in somebody else's case files. And she boiled it all down to . . . bad day.

Talk about understatements. And really though . . . beyond that . . . it wasn't just a bad day, it was a bad week.

A bad month.

Pick one to fill in the blank. They all worked.

But putting all of those weeks together on top of what happened today, yeah . . . the tears started to run down her face . . . perhaps this day did rank a little higher on the suck factor than the others did.

It wasn't just that she was crying that made Hotch's chest hurt. As bad as that was, as bad as this whole night was . . . there was more.

There was a reason that she was here in this bar alone, a reason she'd ended up bleeding on this bathroom floor.

And he still didn't know what that reason was.

Now her mascara was running. To him, the smears of color on her cheeks made her look like a child. As though she had stolen her mother's makeup bag and painted her face without knowing what she was doing.

It was breaking his heart.

He tentatively reached out to her, and when she just stood there he pulled her into his arms.

Then he just held her close, waiting for her to realize that she was okay. That she wasn't alone.

That he would never leave her.

Even though he could feel the tension in her limbs, he didn't let go. Letting go would be the worst thing that he could do. Like he'd made as much effort as he was going to make, and he was done helping her.

Done trying to reach her.

Hotch knew then that he would never be done trying to reach her. That he would never just walk away and call it a life.

She was too important to him for that ever to be an option.

And as he held her in his arms he wanted so badly to ask what was going on. To ask why she was in this club alone, why she was dressed the way she was, why she'd been doing shots and dancing with strangers.

But they had no time for those questions now.

They had to get going. And there was clearly too much to discuss in the few moments that they had. She'd kept this to herself for weeks. She'd been withdrawn and depressed, that had been obvious. Now tonight he'd seen that depression had extended out to carelessness with her own safety.

He just hoped that tonight was the first night that anyone had tried to hurt her.

'_Tried to rape her.'_

The correction immediately came to him.

There would no euphemisms about what he'd almost walked in on here tonight. His fingers curled into her back as he looked at the still unconscious body on the floor.

The fucker had tried to rape her.

It was possible that she could have fought him off on her own. Or that she could have maybe gotten to her weapon. But given her position when he came in . . . prone, dazed and almost unconscious . . . the odds were slim. At the very least, even if she had stopped the rape on her own, she would have ended up taken a serious beating in the process.

Either way, the photos in his mind . . . the bad thing he'd been terrified of happening . . . it would have become reality.

And if she'd been out dressed like this every weekend since her depression had begun . . . perhaps more than just Friday nights . . . then she had to have run into more than one douchebag. And he wanted so badly to ask her if this was the first time this had happened.

But he knew that would be selfish.

He just wanted her to allay his own fears, but that wasn't going to do anything for her.

No . . . he gently rubbed her back . . . if he wanted her to trust him again, to tell him what was wrong, then he needed to be patient. Be patient and let her go at her own pace.

For the first time in weeks he felt like she was within reach, that maybe she would confide in him again.

And with her this close, he couldn't do anything to screw that up.

Suddenly he felt her body relax as she leaned against his chest. He felt a flood of relief . . . thank you God. It was working. He was getting through to her.

He bent his head down and pulled her in closer. Though part of his brain was screaming that they had to go, had to leave before someone came in, or the guy woke up again, Hotch just wanted to hold her for one more second.

To solidify this connection.

And he was so glad that he did, because a moment later he heard her murmur against his chest, "I've missed you."

When he'd first pulled her into his arms she'd tried so hard to keep inside the little wall she'd built between them. Then she realized it was pointless, he clearly wasn't going to leave her alone now.

And she was just making herself miserable.

So after she admitted that truth to him, how much she missed him, she closed her eyes and pretended that everything was normal. That the world was okay, and that she and Hotch did this all the time.

The reality was . . . everything was far from okay. And that as much as she wished it were true . . . they didn't do this all the time. Emotionally they were close, but they weren't usually this demonstrative.

And these last few weeks . . . in every possible way . . . they couldn't have been further apart.

Even though she knew the distance between them was her own fault, she'd still been missing him every day. It was a steady ache in her chest. She knew that he was just a few feet away . . . but she didn't know how to talk to him anymore.

She didn't know what to say.

But as she felt the strength in his embrace, she couldn't remember why she had started avoiding him at all. She knew that there was a reason, but it wouldn't come to her.

Not with his body wrapped around her this way.

At her words Hotch heart clenched again. And he leaned back slightly to look down at her with a sad smile, "I've missed you too," he tucked her hair back behind her ear as he whispered, "I've missed you so much Emily. And I just want to help you. So when we get to your house, will you please," he begged, "please, tell me what's going on?"

She stared at him for a moment, her eyes filling with tears again, and then she nodded.

"Okay," her voice was soft, "okay, I'll tell you when we get home."

This wasn't a now or never situation. Most likely she was going to have to tell him within a few weeks anyway. To say no tonight would simply be avoiding the inevitable.

And after everything he'd done for her, he did deserve to know the truth.

He breathed a sigh of relief, "thank you," he kissed her forehead before he cradled her close again, "thank you Emily."

His eyes shifted over her head as he continued speaking, "now we have to get going before he wakes up and we have questions to answer."

Emily turned slightly in Hotch's arms so that she could see the figure on the floor.

His breathing was so raspy a terrible thought suddenly came to her. She looked up at Hotch worriedly, "do you think he's got a punctured lung?"

Not that she cared if he did, or really even in principle if he died. But if they left him with an injury like that he could drown in his own blood.

And Hotch gave him that beating for her. The consequences for him would be severe if the prick died.

Standing behind her, Hotch rubbed his hands down Emily's arms as he shook his head, "no, he'll be fine. The ribs I broke were low. The pain was enough to make him pass out but the internal damage isn't enough to kill him."

If there was anything Hotch knew was from his childhood, it was where to pound on the human body to inflict the most pain and the least serious damage.

Her brow furrowed as she looked up at him, "but what about his breathing?"

It sounded awful.

Hotch huffed, "that's his nose. But his mouth's open," he gave a dismissive shake of his head as he reached over and grabbed another paper towel from the rack, "trust me, but I'm sad to say that he'll live."

Of course if Hotch had walked in five minutes later, the guy would not have had the same prognosis.

Hotch wet the second paper towel almost two minutes after he wet the first one, and then he turned back around and began cleaning up Emily's face again.

Now getting not only the blood, but the smeared makeup as well. Once that was done he looked her over.

His jaw started grinding again as he saw the swelling around her eye and the red welts that had formed on her arms from where she'd been grabbed.

If he wasn't sure that he really would kill him, Hotch would have happily gone over and beaten the shit out of the bastard again.

A dead body is a lot of paperwork though. Especially when you've just killed a man who was basically unconscious. And therefore not really in a position to have been defending himself at the time of the beating.

Even with those considerations though . . . Hotch's gaze hardened . . . he was still tempted.

Seeing the look on Hotch's face, Emily reached up and touched his cheek as she whispered, "hey, look at me. I'm okay. Remember, he didn't touch me. You got here in time."

Whatever was going through his head right then, it was bad. And she wasn't about to let her reckless behavior tonight lead to similarly foolish behavior from him.

Hotch dropped his gaze to hers, feeling her hand on his cheek and her touch soothing his temper.

He reached up and took her hand from his face, kissing her palm as he nodded, "right."

And then he moved past his anger, beginning to think clearly again as he turned towards the sinks, "we need to leave now." He quickly washed his hands, wincing slightly as the hot water stung his abraded knuckles.

After he was done he turned to Emily, "okay," he reached for her, "come on."

He really wished he had his jacket with him to wrap around her. He hated that outfit. But they weren't going far so he just tucked her under his arm, unlocked the bathroom door and stepped into the hall.

As they started down the back corridor, she slipped her arm around his waist and turned her face into his chest. He wasn't sure if it was just to cover her bruises, or if that made her feel better.

But either way . . . it made him feel better.

When they turned the corner and walked past the ladies room, Hotch saw a man walking towards them. There was nothing else behind them but the men's room so that was clearly where he was heading.

Fortunately the light wasn't that bright, so Hotch just dropped his head down, kissing the top of Emily's head as they passed him in the hall.

It was a good way of covering his face. And hers was already shielded.

After they were clear he moved them double time through the crowd on the dance floor, and then quickly out the front door.

They were cuddled together so the bouncers didn't even give them a second look. It was the people going in that were on their radar, not the canoodling couples on their way out.

Once they were on the street, after her behavior of the past few weeks, Hotch wouldn't have been surprised if she'd pulled her body away from his. But if anything she seemed to cling to him even more tightly.

Apparently what had happened tonight in the bathroom had broken down whatever wall she'd built up between them. And in place of that wall, there now seemed to be a bridge between them instead.

For that he was grateful beyond words. His only regret was that things had to have gone as far as they did for that to happen.

It was after midnight, but well before last call so they wasn't much traffic in the street. They were able to cross quickly without going to the light at the intersection.

When they got to the car he went around to her side and opened the door. He threw his tie into the backseat, but picked up his jacket and wrapped it around her.

She looked up at him for a moment and then she gave him a sad smile right before she pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth.

"Thank you."

She'd thought that once they were outside he would have yelled at her for being so stupid. Given that she hadn't actually joined the ranks of their sexual assault victims, he wouldn't have been an ogre if he'd told her how foolish she'd been tonight.

And he would have been right. He would have been completely justified in reprimanding her.

But instead . . . he was just being really sweet.

Hotch patted her cheek gently as he whispered back, "I'm just glad you're okay."

Or at least he hoped that she was okay. All he knew for sure was she hadn't been raped tonight. Beyond that . . . he took her hand and helped her into the car . . . there was still much to talk about.

After she was safely inside, he shut the door and hurried around to the driver's side. Just as he slid the key into the ignition he heard sirens.

His handiwork in the bathroom had been discovered.

Emily's fingernails dug into his knee and he immediately covered her hand with his. Then he turned to give her a little smile, "it's fine Emily. I told you, he looks like hell, but he'll live. And he never saw me coming so he sure as hell isn't going to remember who hit him. Plus it's going to be obvious to any doctor or police officer who looks at him, and sees the scratch marks on his face that it was a woman who was fighting him off. He's going to be in serious shit if he opens his mouth and even begins to try to explain what happened in that bathroom. So we," he began backing the car up the street so he could turn around, "are going to go back to your place, we're going to take some pictures of your bruises as an insurance policy, and then we're going to put the whole thing behind us."

Then a thought came to him and he glanced over at her worriedly, "unless you don't want to put it behind us. If you want to talk about it, you know I'll listen."

As he was now driving, he reached over blindly with his hand as he shot her another look, "you do know that right? That I'll always listen if you want to talk?"

They both knew he wasn't just talking about tonight. And she grabbed his hand, winding her fingers through his as she whispered, "I know that. And I promise that's not why I've been so distant. It wasn't you."

At his sigh of relief she addressed his more direct question, "and no, I don't think I need to talk about what happened again. We covered it in the bathroom. And really, he left less marks on me than the last UNSUB we chased down did."

Emily had tackled him just before Morgan and Hotch came around opposite corners. Before the guys had gotten there she'd had the UNSUB subdued. But in the process she'd also taken an elbow to the face, a kick to the shoulder and a punch to the gut. Hotch had helped her up off the ground, and then he'd allowed Morgan to take the prisoner the long way around to the SUV.

By the time they caught up with them again, the UNSUB . . . the pedophile . . . he was crying. But beyond that, he had no more marks on him than the ones that Emily had left when she was defending herself. Whatever Morgan had said though . . . it had been enough to terrify him.

And it pained her to realize that the guys had done that for her even though at that point, she'd barely spoken two words to either of them in a week.

It wasn't about them though . . . her eyes started to sting again as she reminded herself . . . it was about her. She'd been so depressed, but that didn't mean it was okay to shut them out.

She felt Hotch's fingers entwined with hers . . . to shut _him_ out.

This whole time she'd known that she was hurting him, that he didn't understand her distance. And still she'd said nothing to him.

And tonight he'd possibly risked his career for her. The man had risked his career just to get justice . . . vengeance . . . for an attack that he'd already thwarted.

This would be one of the reasons why she fell in love with him. Not that he knew that either. That was another secret she was keeping from him. Another thing that she didn't know how to tell him.

But it might be too late for that anyway.

She lifted his hand up, kissing the back of his knuckles before she whispered, "I just don't want you to get into any trouble."

His face softened as he looked over at her, "don't worry, I won't."

They rode the rest of the way in silence, Emily continuing to clutch his hand in her lap as he drove to her apartment.

By the time they arrived at her home it was after one. And he knew that it was generally too late for a talk . . . especially a heart to heart . . . but he really wasn't leaving until they'd had one.

Too much had happened tonight. Too much _could _have happened tonight. And he couldn't risk losing all of the progress he'd made in getting her back again. Because it was possible that in the light of the new day that she might decide that she didn't want to tell him her secret.

And then they'd back to where they were this morning. No hugs, no hand holding.

Just that cold, gaping maw between them.

Hotch parked in her visitor's spot and they sat there for a moment, the car ticking as it cooled down. Then he turned to her, "wait for me for one second," he squeezed her hand, "okay?"

He knew that she was more than capable of getting out of his car without any assistance, but he was feeling a little protective at the moment. And it was the middle of the night.

If she could get jumped in the bathroom of a crowded bar, then a deserted parking lot at one in the morning really wasn't doing anything for his level of comfort about her safety.

She looked at him and then nodded slowly, "okay."

It was a simple request that would make him happy. So why fight him?

After squeezing her hand one last time, Hotch got out of the car. Then he leaned down to take his other weapon from the lockbox. He slid it onto his hip before he put the box back under the seat and shut the door. And only then did he circle around the car and help Emily out.

Even though he was wearing the Glock, for some reason he didn't want to leave his pistol in the car. He knew that his nerves really must have been shot to hell tonight if he was still this jumpy.

As they walked towards her building, he again tucked her under his arm, holding her close to his body.

If she was going to allow the contact then he was going to go with it. The one thing he'd learned over the past few weeks was not to take anything for granted. If she ever pulled away from him like that again . . . he kissed her temple . . . he really wasn't sure how well his heart would take it.

That was a conversation that they needed to have at some point. The 'I've fallen in love with you' conversation. But that was of course after he found out what was going on with her.

One thing at a time.

They got up to her apartment, and as they stood by the door his hand slipped off of her shoulder so that she could get out her key.

She pulled it from a small zippered pocket in her skirt.

A thought came to him then, and his eyes widened as they ran over her body.

Her tank top was skin tight and left nothing to the imagination, nor did the skirt. It stopped at least three inches above her knee. And that's when he realized . . . there was no room for her holster.

She wasn't wearing her gun.

They wore their weapons everywhere, so he had just assumed it was under her skirt. It hadn't even occurred to him that she wasn't wearing it. But now that he knew that she wasn't carrying it, his temper flared up out of nowhere.

It was the first time that he'd been angry with her since he'd seen her allowing herself to be touched by that first strange man.

Of course he wasn't upset because she'd violated protocol. No, he was upset because she'd gone out unarmed and alone into the city.

But as they stepped inside her apartment the anger didn't manifest itself in the yelling that he would have thought.

Instead, as soon as he hit the deadbolt he turned and picked her up, holding her tightly to his chest as he whispered fiercely, "what were you THINKING going out without your weapon?"

He sucked in his breath as all of the horrible scenarios he'd thought of earlier, came rushing at him again, "what if I hadn't been there? What would you have done?"

And he realized then that was why he was so angry.

Until that moment, a small part of him had clung to the belief that she would have been able to fight off that attack by herself. That his presence tonight hadn't been an imperative to preventing her from becoming a victim. That even if she'd taken the beating, that somehow maybe she would have been able to get her hands on her weapon.

The reality was that she had absolutely nothing to protect herself with . . . she would have been screwed.

That's when he felt her warm tears on his neck as she clung to him, "I know. It was stupid," her voice cracked, "it was so stupid. And I'm sorry, but please don't be angry with me," a sob broke free, "on top of everything else I couldn't bear that right now Aaron."

At the exhaustion and sadness in her voice, his anger washed away again.

It was like the tide. All of the emotions he never allowed himself to feel, they were now beating against the rocks.

He hoisted her up, wrapping her up more tightly in his arms as he whispered, "shh don't cry. I'm not angry. But I'm worried Emily . . . I'm so worried about you," he reluctantly lowered her back to the ground, holding her close as he looked down at her, "what is going on with you? What is so bad that you made that many serious mistakes with your safety tonight," he gently brushed her tears away, "you were reckless Emily. And that's not like you. It's almost like you didn't even care if you got hurt."

And that terrified him.

Still crying, she shook her head, "no, that's not it. I do care. I . . ." she sniffled, "I just wasn't thinking. I just haven't been thinking clearly lately," she wiped her eyes, "but I promise you Aaron, I wasn't deliberately putting myself in harm's way."

Though she knew her behavior tonight had been irresponsible, she'd like to think she'd never get to that point. That no matter how bad things were, that she'd ever want to deliberately hurt herself.

Feeling the smallest bit of his tension leave him, he nodded slowly, "okay," he kissed her forehead, "okay, that makes me feel a little better."

At least she wasn't that self destructive. But he still couldn't get those horrible images out of his head, so he hugged her again. As he felt her tears drying on his shirt, he rubbed her back, "so what is it Emily? What is it that's had you twisted in knots these past few weeks? What is it that had you so distracted that you left the house without your weapon? That you were drinking alone in a bar?"

His voice started to get husky. But he didn't care anymore that he was wearing his emotions on his sleeve.

All he cared about was her. And the more the more she touched him . . . the more familiar he was allowed to be with her . . . the harder it was to ignore his feelings for her.

If he didn't find out soon what was going on with her he was going to go nuts.

Emily leaned back, her face sticky from her tears. She sniffed, this was it . . . no more evasions. No more avoidance. He'd just asked her a lot of direct questions. But what was the best way to give him the answers that he wanted?

She leaned up and pressed a kiss to his lips. As she pulled back he saw her looking at her quizzically. And why wouldn't he? That wasn't exactly an answer to anything.

At least not an answer that he'd understand right now.

So reached over and took his hand, squeezing his fingers before she looked up at him again.

"I need to show you something."

* * *

_A/N 2: As to the degree of violence in the bathroom and to not calling the police to report her attack. Whether or not you agreed with it, hopefully it all made sense. At least through their eyes. They live in a violent world. You spend enough time watching people slip through the cracks, knowing the humiliation that the victim suffers at the hands of the system is worse than anything really that happens to the perpetrators, you're going to just do what needs to be done and walk away. _

_So I think, given Hotch's temper and intensity, the things he's seen, that it's completely in character that he would have reacted the way that he did. In this story anyway, given his feelings for her. There's also some discussion for season 5 to go back to that question which he asked himself here, and has come up on the show before, if you can chase monsters and not become one yourself. I don't presently have any more deep discussion in the story as it relate to his actions in the bathroom. But, it's possible that I might end up addressing the question again on the final draft. One thing I will be addressing is their decision to leave the way they did. So, if you have concerns there, don't yell at me yet. The story isn't over :) Hell, you guys don't even know what's up with her yet! Originally the story was just supposed to be what was up with her, it wasn't supposed to be all of this other moral quandary stuff. _

_And though I usually would have let Emily get a few more licks in there (sorry paksiegurlie – meant to get back to you), I needed her carelessness to have real consequences to make an impression on her. So, though I'm generally of the opinion of letting her look after herself, I needed for Hotch to be all alpha 'big strong man' here. This is a short story, and it was the only way that the wall she'd built up between them was going to crumble that quickly. The averted tragedy had to have been clear to her. But to balance that out, I did add in the story with her taking their last UNSUB out all by herself. _

_One last note there, given how quickly Hotch took a beatdown in the season opener, as I was writing that scene, it seemed entirely plausible that Emily, with a similar blow to the head that he took, would have hit the deck just as quickly. So, really, at that point I felt better about letting him play hero. It should be seen that rather than making her look damsely here, she's just taking the same punishment that Hotch did. It's just unfortunate for Hotch in canon that Emily didn't come smashing through his front door in the same fashion that he did here for her._

_I'll get chapter 3 up sometime this week. Perhaps, with proper motivation, for the now regular Wednesday new episode, posting._


	3. Clarity

**Author's Note**: It's done! I have crossed another item off the incomplete list! Yay!

I wasn't expecting to get this finished up this weekend (it certainly wasn't on the immediate To Do list) but my brain shifted into the right state of mind to write it, so here we are!

I'll explain the origins of this story (and why it took so long to finish 3 chapters) at the end.

You'll probably need to read the other chapters to refresh your memory as to what was happening (I know I had to) and then I can tell you that this is picking up immediately from when the last one ended.

And **warning**: there is a topic of some sensitivity in here, but it's NOT a sexual assault or anything along those lines so you can safely read on knowing there are no illusions to anything like that

* * *

**Clarity**

At Emily's pronouncement Hotch's brow wrinkled in concern and confusion . . . show him.

What could she need to show him?

As Emily saw the look on Hotch's face, she remembered that this wasn't a conversation to have in the doorway. So after she turned the deadbolt, she slipped her arm through his, and leaned her head on his shoulder as they walked over to the couch.

The confusion was still apparent to her as he sat down. And it was obvious that the longer she went without talking, the more worried he was getting. It wasn't that she was prolonging this on purpose, but she knew that it was going to be a lengthy conversation. They'd already had a long night and she wanted to get comfortable.

And that meant that she needed to get these damn boots off.

After she unzipped them, she put her hand on the couch to steady herself as she tugged first one and then the other down her leg, each dropped to the floor with a clatter.

Now her legs were completely bare up well past her knees. Even though her outfit had already been revealing, she felt even more exposed now . . . vulnerable . . . than she had before.

But as she turned back to the couch she saw that Hotch didn't seem to notice the now notable expanse of bare skin.

He was just staring down at the carpet.

Emily bit her lip as she climbed onto the couch and got up on her knees beside him. He made no move to look at her so she rubbed her hand down his arm.

God this truly did suck.

When he finally turned to her she saw the worry on his face was now tinged with fear. But she preempted him asking any questions. She knew that she had to plunge into all of it before she lost her nerve. So she took a breath, reached over and picked up his hand.

She placed it on the side of her breast.

Confused, and slightly flustered, he started to pull it back but Emily shook her head as she held it in place.

"No, Hotch, I need you to feel, press your fingers down, right there on the side."

She guided his hand, pressing it into the thin material. Of course he'd feel it more easily if she put his hand under her shirt . . . but that would be too much for him.

That would be too much for both of them.

Though she could see that he was still unsure of what was going on, Hotch did as she asked and pressed down. And she could tell the moment he felt it. His eyes widened and then a moment later filled with tears as his hand slid off her breast.

It came down her side to rest on her hip as he looked at her in anguish.

"What did the doctor say?"

His voice was choked. Of all the horrible scenarios that had been running through his head, this one had not come to him. This was the one for which he wasn't prepared.

Cancer.

Seeing his reaction, Emily's own tears started running again. But of course they'd been running for weeks.

"She said," her voice was husky, "that we'd need the biopsy results to know for sure, but that in her experience the size and placement was bad," she swallowed, "and with my family history, well, I don't know if you know but my mom had breast cancer when I was in college."

Hotch shook his head slowly as he tried to process all of these horrific new developments.

"No," his watery eyes slid away for a moment before they snapped back to hers, "no, I didn't know that."

That must have been after he'd done her security review. He definitely would have remembered her mother being sick when he was there.

"It's not well known," Emily continued crying, "but she had a mastectomy. And her mother died of breast cancer when I was seven, so," she reached up to wipe her hand across her face as she finished on a sob, "I think I'm pretty much screwed."

Hotch stared at her in horror.

Cancer.

All these weeks she'd been depressed and withdrawn because she thought she had cancer.

Feeling one of his own tears spill over, he wiped the corner of his eye. They stared at each other for a moment, both of them with their eyes watering, and then he tentatively reached for her.

He wasn't sure what she would do. If she would allow him to touch her as she had been since he found her in the bathroom, or if she would go back into that cold little shell she'd be living in these past few weeks.

Really, he didn't know if he could handle being shut out again . . . not after this news.

To his relief though, she didn't pull away. And in fact it was quite the opposite as she leaned into him, allowing him to pull her closer. So he did, he pulled her as close as he could until he had her in his lap and she slipped her arms around his neck and rested her head on his shoulder. He'd never held her like that before.

He'd never held her period really. But it felt right. Even after all these weeks of distance . . . it felt right.

Still though, for a moment he had no words to offer, no expressions of support or sympathy.

There was nothing he could think to say to make her feel better. He was too shell shocked himself, so without words he relied on actions.

He wrapped her up tightly in his arms, holding her close. And his already battered heart splintered just a little more as he felt the desperation of her fingers digging into his back.

She was terrified. She was terrified and she'd been all alone for weeks.

That was what he didn't understand . . . he tipped his head against hers as he shifted her closer . . . why had she ever thought that she needed to handle this on her own? Hadn't he made it clear how much he cared about her?

He ran his thumb along her bare thigh as he whispered sadly, "why didn't you tell me?"

Emily reluctantly loosened her grasp on his neck so she could turn her head. Then she murmured against his throat, "I found the lump one day in the shower and all I could think was that this couldn't be happening to me. I'd seen what it had done to my mother and I just couldn't imagine that I had now become her. So for a few days," she sniffled, "I tried to convince myself that it was nothing, a clogged pore, that I was overreacting. And then by the weekend I finally accepted that I was being incredibly stupid and I made my appointment. And I just . . . I just didn't want to talk about it before I saw the doctor. And there was the exam and the mammogram and the ultrasound and then after I knew for sure that there was something there, well . . . I don't know why I didn't say anything."

That last sentence was a lie. She knew exactly why she hadn't said anything. But . . . her eyes started to fill once more . . . she couldn't tell him why. It would make her look pathetic.

So she just moved on to the rest of the truth.

"I was just so depressed," she continued sadly, "and I didn't want to deal with it. I didn't want to think about it," she started to cry again, "and then I did start to think, and I wondered, 'what if they have to cut it off, what if I'm disfigured, what if nobody ever wants to . . . to . . ."

And she trailed off on a sob.

That again was the part of the answer that was a lie. She didn't want to tell Hotch that it wasn't just anybody . . . it was him.

It was _him_ that she was worried about. That _he_ would never want her. For months she'd been falling in love, waiting for the right time, the right moment to try to tell him how she felt.

And then in an instant, all of that evaporated. How could she tell a man that she loved him and then in the next breath tell him that she could be seriously ill and possibly had no future? And even if she did have a future, she was most likely going to be mutilated first and then stitched back together again like a rag doll.

How do you TELL someone that? How do you ask them to accept the burden of sharing that terrible journey with you? They weren't romantically involved. There was no covenant between them.

She was completely alone, and as far as she could see . . . that's the way she was going to stay.

Of course she knew that if the results were as expected that Hotch would eventually have to know because of work, but she wasn't thinking about the practical concerns yet.

Her heart was broken.

And that thought . . . that this illness, even if it didn't steal her life, had already stolen her future . . . had been feeding her depression. But as she thought back, she realized how cruel she'd been to him. How that . . . in the reverse . . . she would have been terribly hurt if he'd distanced himself from her as firmly as she had distanced herself from him.

Even though it was going to be embarrassing, the man deserved the full explanation for her behavior.

She looked up at him with watery eyes.

"Tonight," she started slowly, trying so hard to make him understand what she was thinking, "I was so tired of being sad. Of being depressed. And then I saw that the Violent Femmes were at The Black Cat so I decided to go out. I wanted to try to take my mind off things," she looked down sadly at the skimpy tank top, "and given that both my mother and my grandmother ended up losing their breasts I figured that this would be the last time I could wear something like this. So I should you know . . ."

'_Show them off while I still had something to show off_,' was the end of that thought.

But it seemed much too pathetic to say it out loud.

At her explanation, Hotch flinched as he thought back on his thoughts about the clothes she was wearing.

What an asshole he'd been, thinking those terrible things about her. He should have known better, he should have known that there was a good reason for what she was doing.

Though . . . his hand ran along the edge of the black leather as he thought miserably . . . he never would have guessed it was this.

He kissed her temple before whispering, "I'm so sorry Emily," he looked down at her, "did you get the results of the biopsy yet?"

She tipped her head slightly, "yes and no. The first biopsy was inconclusive. I have to go back in Monday afternoon so they can do a more invasive test."

Starting to feel a small spark of hope, Hotch said warily, "but maybe inconclusive means that there's nothing there."

To him, inconclusive seemed like it might turn out to be good news.

Emily wiped her hand across her face as she slowly shook her head, "I think inconclusive means that they just don't have proof yet."

As appealing as his way of thinking was, her doctor had been very guarded in her assessment, and Emily herself knew that the odds were not in her favor. And she certainly couldn't allow herself to get her hopes up like that.

It would just make it that much harder when reality came crashing down on her head.

A thought came to him and Hotch furrowed his brow as he looked down at her in confusion, "why are you just having this biopsy on Monday? Clearly something's been wrong for at least a couple weeks."

God, she hadn't really been putting off treatment all this time had she?

Wait, Monday . . . his brow wrinkled . . . she told him that she had to have a root canal in the afternoon and that she would probably be out Tuesday. He thought she was going to the dentist and she was really going to have a cancer biopsy.

Jesus Christ.

She huffed humorlessly, "even when your doctor thinks you might have cancer you still have to wait your turn because there are a whole bunch of other people that might have cancer too. I didn't call right away and then each of the appointments take a few days to get set up. And all those days start to add up into weeks," she tipped her head, "it's been just over two weeks since I called the doctor so it's actually been going fairly quickly."

Though . . . she added to herself . . . fairly quickly feels like forever when you're waiting to find out if you're sick. Monday was actually going to be a surgery. Outpatient, but they had told her it would be a couple days recovery.

Still though, she'd just told Hotch that she'd only be out for a day and a half for that root canal. Which just goes to show how stupid she was being. If they had been called up for a case at all next week, she wouldn't have been field ready. And then she would have had to tell him in the office why she couldn't go.

That would have been a nightmare.

Hotch's eyes widened as she recapped the days . . . so she could have had cancer spreading through her body this whole time and she still wasn't getting any treatment.

Unfuckingbelievable.

Now that she'd finally bared her soul to him, Emily felt that knot in her stomach loosen. It was still there of course . . . that was fear . . . but it wasn't being compounded by guilt and loneliness.

Somebody else knew.

HE knew.

She wrapped her arms around his neck again, feeling the strength in his embrace. It was a safe place. It was a warm place . . . and she'd been so cold for weeks.

As they sat on the couch, Hotch slowly rubbed circles on her back. And as the numbness of the moment began to wear off, he started to hate himself for thinking the terrible things he'd been thinking.

For being so angry with her in the bar.

Yes, she was being reckless, but she wasn't . . . he winced . . . cruising, or any other cruel, uncharitable thing he'd thought. She was just frightened and confused and lonely.

And he couldn't even apologize for all the things that had been going through his head. It would hurt her so much to know that he'd had such thoughts. Then he realized that one thing that he could do though was apologize properly for what he'd actually _done_.

Following her.

He kissed her cheek, careful to avoid the bruising from where she'd been struck earlier, and then he whispered, "I have to say something," when she turned to look at him he continued softly, "even though it all turned out for the best tonight, I'm so sorry that I followed you without your permission. And that I . . ." he swallowed, "watched you in the club. That was wrong," his eyes slid down to her shoulder, seeing the marks there, "I did what I did for the right reasons but it was still wrong," he looked back up, "I should have handled things differently."

Just saying it out loud brought another wave of shame.

Halfway through Hotch's confession, Emily stiffened up. And when he was done she said slowly, "you _watched_ me in the club."

It didn't even come out as a question . . . it was just reality smacking her across the face.

Though she'd of course known that he'd followed her to The Black Cat, with everything that had happened in the bathroom . . . and her being so relieved that he was there . . . the full implications of his presence hadn't really sunk in. She hadn't thought about what had come before that moment when she was attacked.

That he'd seen how she behaved with all of those men. Letting them touch her, grope her.

Oh God . . . her face started to burn in shame . . . she was so embarrassed!

Feeling her pulling away as the color rose in her cheeks, Hotch a fresh wave of shame and regret hit him. And he hastened to take the full blame for what had happened.

"Please don't be embarrassed Emily," he pleaded as he tugged her closer again, "you're an adult and I shouldn't have been watching you like that. As soon as I got there, I should have gone up to you and told you that I was there and that I wanted to talk. If I had," he turned his head away as his voice dropped, "well, then the rest of it wouldn't have happened . . . you wouldn't have been hurt."

And that was the bitch of it. It was his fault. If he had done the right thing . . . the honorable thing . . . then she wouldn't have been put into danger.

What it all came down to is that he should have trusted her.

He'd known her for three years, had been _consciously_ falling in love with her for at least six months . . . and he should have trusted her. He should have trusted that there was a good reason for her outfit, for her behavior.

For everything.

Even if she had been reckless, it wasn't because she was trying to hurt herself. It was because she was being mentally tortured and not thinking clearly.

So if either of them should carry any embarrassment or shame over their behavior that night, it was him, not her.

At his words, Emily felt her own embarrassment start to fade. She looked at him . . . looked at the pain and remorse on his face . . . and though part of her brain, the independent feminist part perhaps . . . told her that she should be angry with him, she wasn't.

How could she be angry given what had happened in the bathroom?

So though she wasn't mad at him, as she actually considered the words he'd spoken, Emily began to feel a little hurt. And her eyes were moist as she looked at him, "I wish you had come to me. I would have been angry but . . ."

And she trailed off. She wasn't entirely sure what she would have done. Would she have been so pissed that she'd gone off with some other guy just out of spite?

She didn't think so . . . she didn't think that she was that small or that stupid. But on its face, she knew that she would have been furious if she'd seen him watching her in the bar like she was some UNSUB under surveillance. And she already was making poor choices tonight so who knows what she would have done. Because sometimes you do things when you're angry that you regret later.

Of course . . . she added bitterly to herself . . . sometimes you do things when you're frightened that you regret later too.

But as she went back to what Hotch had done, and her own state of mind these past few weeks, she also knew that her response could have gone completely the other way. She'd been feeling so alone, and so frightened, that she might have seen his actions tonight for what she knew they really were.

Not possessive and controlling . . . but as the desperate last ditch efforts of a man who cared about her. That what he'd done tonight was the only option she'd left available to him.

And looking at him now, his eyes downcast with shame and regret, she saw no reason to hold on to anymore of the negativity.

In the end all that mattered was that he had meant well . . . and that he had saved her.

She ran her fingers along his jaw, waiting until he looked up before she said softly, "it's okay, I'm not upset with you."

His expression lifted slightly, "are you sure?"

He was worried that her forgiveness was coming too fast, it's harder to let go of hurt than simple anger.

Emily nodded, "yes," she sighed, "I don't want to be angry with you," then her eyes started watering again as her voice got husky, "I can't afford to be angry with you. I need you."

"You have me," he picked up her hand and kissed it, "you have me no matter what," his voice caught,  
"so if you want to stay mad, stay mad Emily."

She wrapped her arms around his neck, and then turned her head, whispering in his ear, "my clock might be ticking, so I'm not going to waste even a minute of my time left on the planet . . . whether it's four years or forty . . . being angry about things that don't matter," she kissed his cheek, "you said you were sorry, and that's enough."

His own tears threatened to spill over again as he hugged her tightly, "thank you," and then he leaned back to look at her, "and you're going to be just fine so no more talk about four years," his face contorted in pain, "I say you have at least fifty more years. You'll outlive me by decades."

Feeling a horrible stab of pain in her chest, Emily shook her head violently, "don't say that! I don't want to think about decades without you."

What a horrible existence that would be . . . she tucked her body against his again . . . she'd missed him terribly just these past three weeks.

Emily's words unexpectedly gave Hotch's heart a jolt. She didn't want to think about decades without him. Of course he didn't want to think about decades without her either. But that was because he loved her.

Did she maybe feel the same way?

Hotch slowly rubbed his hand down her back, his eyes staring sightless across the room before they dropped back down to the coffee table in front of them.

How much should he say right now? How much would she want to hear?

As he started to consider the questions, he thought of her spiraling depression these past few weeks . . . how far away she'd drifted from him.

And then he flashed on her taking his hand and putting it on her breast. She hadn't just told him that she might be sick . . . she'd needed to show him.

His eyes widened slightly as the light slowly started to dawn.

He realized that she'd told him the way that she had because she wanted him to REALLY get it. To feel it. That was the irrefutable proof . . . she had a lump in her breast . . . and she wanted that fact right in his face where he couldn't look away.

And as horrible as that reality was, his heart began to swell . . . that was why she hadn't told him before. Because she really _did_ feel the same way about him that he did about her! But she was afraid that he would reject her because of the surgery. That he wouldn't want her if she was . . . disfigured.

His brain instantly rejected the word . . . no matter what happened, it was not a word that he would ever associate with the woman in his arms.

But he knew her.

He knew her better than anyone. And even with the recent distance, now knowing her family history, he suddenly knew _exactly_ what had been going through her mind these past couple weeks. Both her mother and her grandmother had mastectomies and she was convinced that in very short order she'd be losing her breast too.

He felt an irrational burst of anger rise up . . . as though something like that would change his feelings for her!

But then a moment later the anger fled and he felt shame wash over him again . . . she was terrified that she might have a disease that could kill her. And she didn't know how he felt.

She didn't know that simply being shut out of her life had been breaking his heart.

No, all she knew for sure was that for weeks she'd been sitting in this apartment day after day all alone seeing whatever plans she had for her future . . . a future that she might have thought someday could have included him . . . fade away.

What hell that must have been. What an absolute hell.

He rubbed his hand gently down her back as he considered what she'd been going through. Tried to put himself in her place.

Then suddenly he knew in his bones that this was absolutely the right time to tell her everything. And as soon as he came to that decision, he ended up just blurting it out.

"I love you."

Emily's eyes widened in shock as she pulled back to look at him, "what?"

Was this some kind of pity announcement?

Seeing the look of disbelief on Emily face, Hotch felt a moment of uncertainty . . . but he kept plowing into it. He'd already jumped off the cliff.

There was no turning back now.

"I love you," he continued passionately, and then he began pouring out his heart to her. It was the only way he could think to convince her.

"I love your smile, I love your wit, I love your compassion and your kindness and your intelligence. I love that sparkle in your eyes when you get excited about something. I love that you have to steal a bite of my dinner even if we order the same meal, I love that you order a Big Mac and a large fry but insist on eating them with a small diet Coke, I love that you trust me enough to tell me your secrets, I love that you can always cheer me up when I'm having a bad day . . ." he took a breath, "I love YOU."

Then his eyes began to burn again as he continued, "I love all of those things Emily, because those things are what make you who you are. And, I would be so sad if they were gone . . ." his voice caught, "because that would mean that you were gone. But this," his fingers gently stroked the side of her breast, "if this were gone, I would be sad for you, but not," he shook his head firmly, "not for me."

There could be no question for her here. She had to know . . . this didn't matter.

All that mattered to him was that she lived.

Eyes wide, Emily stared up at him in shock . . . that was a lot to absorb in thirty seconds. But his words were slowly were sinking in, permeating the layers of grief and sadness that had been surrounding her heart.

It wasn't pity . . . he loved her.

He loved her, he knew that she might be sick . . . and he still wanted to be with her.

And when the reality of that finally hit, she burst into tears as her arms snaked around his neck, "I love you too!" she cried, "and I was so afraid that this meant the end of any possibilities of a future with you!"

Hotch's eyes watered as he clutched her to his chest, "Emily why would you think that I would abandon you? Even if I hadn't fallen in love with you, didn't you know that you're my best friend?" His voice cracked, "I would have taken care of you no matter what."

At his words the little ball of fear in Emily's stomach loosened just a bit more. Facing your mortality alone wasn't the same as facing it with someone who loved you. And of course if she'd been thinking clearly at all she should have known that if nothing else she should have told him earlier.

But she hadn't been thinking clearly since she'd felt the little marble that day in the shower.

She buried her face in his neck, breathing him in like an elixir.

He loved her.

He loved her and he said that he would stay with her no matter what. For the first time in weeks her depression wasn't a lead weight on her chest. She had a glimmer of a real future again.

One where she might get through this. Not only survive . . . but survive and be happy.

She leaned back to look at him, brushing the tears off her face as she did so.

He was hers.

As Emily stared at him with the bruise on her face, sniffling as she wiped the tears away, all Hotch could think was how beautiful she was. At that thought he was struck by a desperate need to kiss her.

So he did.

And it went on . . . and on as his fingers ran through her hair and her body hovered over his. And when he slowly pulled back, his eyes were watery but he tried to give her a little smile, "I'll go with you on Monday. Whatever happens, whatever they say," his fingers ghosted along the curved of her breast, "whatever they do, I'll be right there with you if you'll let me."

At that moment Emily was filled with a simultaneous burst of happiness and grief. Then she leaned up and pressed lips to his again. As she pulled away, she ran her fingers along his jaw and she nodded, "I'd like that, thank you," and she shifted around so she could rest her head on his shoulder again.

This was something that she could have had weeks ago, if only she hadn't been so scared to tell him.

She clutched him tightly as she felt a wave of grief rise up . . . so afraid that she could never have this with him.

Still feeling the desperation in Emily's embrace, Hotch rubbed his hand soothingly up and down her back as the words of comfort that were lost to him earlier finally arrived.

"It'll be okay," he whispered, "even if the results are positive, that doesn't necessarily mean you'll have to have the same surgery as your mother. You know how far they've come with treatment in the past twenty years. There's so much they can do now."

All the while he was talking, trying to reassure her, he was trying to push away his own terror. Though he was speaking the truth to her, he also knew that most cancer treatments were brutal. If she was sick this was going to be a hard road.

Feeling her arms loosen slightly, Hotch leaned back, kissing her before he brushed her hair back off her face . . . she was so pretty, he hated to see her covered up.

Emily sniffled as she looked up at Hotch, and he gave her a sad smile as he said softly, "I want you to remember what I said. I love you. And no matter what happens," his voice caught, "I'm not going anywhere, okay?"

She nodded, wiping her hand under her eye, "okay."

As he ran his hand along her arm he felt the goose bumps there and he patted her arm, "you're cold," he sighed, "and you've had a long night. You need sleep."

Though he absolutely hated the thought of leaving her, he wasn't going to be so presumptuous as to assume he was staying over tonight.

Feeling a chill more at his words than the air temperature, Emily shook her head as she asked worriedly, "you're not leaving though, right? Doesn't Haley have Jack?"

Even if she hadn't been able to engage much with him, she hadn't been living in a bubble. Her ears had been working just fine, and she'd heard him tell Rossi about Haley's trip to her mother's two days ago. So if he didn't need to leave to be with his son then she couldn't see any reason on the planet why he needed to be going anywhere.

A faint smile touched Hotch's lips, "she does. So of course I'll stay if you want me to stay," at her vehement nod, he shifted forward on the couch, "okay, then I'll go grab my bag and you should put some . . ." he coughed slightly, "something warm on."

He'd almost said she should go put _some_ clothes on. Christ that would have been an unfortunate choice of words.

Emily nodded slowly. As much as she hated the idea of separating from him for even a little while . . . there had been so much separation already . . . she knew that he was right. She was getting cold, and she certainly wouldn't be wearing this outfit to bed.

Also . . . her eyes dropped down to the skirt and tank top she was wearing . . . after what happened in the bathroom these clothes were making her feel dirty.

She probably wouldn't wear them again.

Using Hotch's knee for leverage, Emily pushed herself to her feet before she looked back down at him. He slowly rose up beside her, his eyes running over the previously invisible finger impressions on her thigh and then up and along the darker bruises on her arm and her face.

Seeing them so starkly against her pale skin, he felt another burst of rage which he quickly tamped down . . . it would only upset her . . . before he said softly, "before you change we should take those pictures," he gently cupped her jaw as he focused his attention on her face, "does your eye hurt?"

They needed to put some ice on it. Actually he should have done that as soon as they walked in the house but clearly there had been more pressing concerns.

For a moment Emily considered lying so he wouldn't get angry again. But then she realized that there had been enough secrets already.

Lying . . . even with good intentions . . . would just build up another wall.

So she nodded as she said softly, "yeah, actually, it's been throbbing. I should take some Tylenol before bed," her brow wrinkled slightly, "does it look bad?"

Probably the only thing to be grateful for about this whole was that it had happened on a Friday night. So even if the bruising was still there on Monday, the swelling should at least be gone.

He winced slightly, "well, it doesn't look 'good' but I think you were a little more banged up out in Milwaukee."

That was the only injury he could think to directly compare it too, but actually the bruising looked very painful.

Emily huffed humorlessly as she rolled her eyes, "great, so I don't look _as_ bad as I did when I got smashed in the face with a two by four."

His eyes crinkled slightly as he pulled her into a hug, "you don't look bad," he whispered into her ear, "you look like a beautiful woman with a small bruise on her face. We'll ice it and that will take down the swelling, and I'm sure once you put on some makeup nobody else will even know that it's there."

Of course he would know, and every time he saw it he'd want to pound that guy's face into the wall again. But Hotch also knew that he was really going to have to deal with his anger more constructively, because if she _was_ sick, him acting like a Neanderthal wasn't going to help anything.

He rubbed his hand along her back, "do you have a camera?"

All he had with him was the one on his phone and that was Bureau property. At present this was a private matter and he wanted no evidence of it on FBI hardware.

She nodded against his chest, "yeah," she lifted her head, "yeah, in my room."

"Okay," his jaw hardened as he thought about what needed to be done, "I'll get my stuff and then we'll take the pictures," feeling her tense up, his expression softened again as he tucked her hair behind her ear, "I'll put them in an envelope and I'll lock them up in my safe. Nobody should ever have to see them. They're just an insurance policy."

Her eyes dropped down to her revealing outfit . . . she really didn't want to have photographic evidence of her stupidity. Of how close she'd come to being raped and beaten on a bathroom floor.

But then she remembered that the insurance was more for Hotch than her.

A court would care little about the damage she had inflicted . . . she picked up Hotch's left hand, stroking her fingers over the battered knuckles . . . it was the damage that Hotch had inflicted that needed to have an explanation.

Her head snapped back up again and she nodded firmly, "okay, I'll get the camera and I'll wait for you."

Hotch saw the shift in her stance and leaned down to press a kiss to her forehead.

"Thank you," he murmured against her skin.

He knew that this was hard for her, but he really thought it needed to be done. Just in case they showed up on a video camera in or around the club, and people like themselves came knocking on the door. If that happened, Hotch wanted it to be immediately clear what that piece of shit had done to her.

Especially if she was sick, he wasn't going to let her go through any more stress over this incident than was necessary.

Feeling the tears hovering again, Emily patted Hotch's chest as she whispered, "go get your bag," then she looked up at him, "and hurry back."

His expression softened before he leaned down and kissed her.

"I'll only be five minutes," he said softly as he squeezed her fingers. Then he stepped passed her, picked up her keys from the kitchen counter, and walked out the door.

She heard the lock click a moment later and she stared at the floor for a moment.

The tears started to pool but she blinked them away . . . she didn't want tonight to be like every other night for the past seventeen days. Her crying alone in her apartment. Hotch would be back soon . . . she shook her head as she started towards the stairs . . . and she didn't want him to find her that way.

It would make him sad.

So for his sake, she pushed those tears away, took a breath . . . and went up to find her camera.

///////

Hotch let himself back into Emily's apartment seven minutes after he'd walked out.

"Emily," he called out softly as he locked the door again, "I'm back."

Hearing nothing in response, Hotch realized that she'd already gone upstairs. So he dropped the keys on the counter where he'd found them and walked over to her staircase.

His jaw twitched as he looked up to the second floor landing . . . this was new. Going upstairs, sleeping in her bed, these things were all new. And he gave himself a moment to adjust to them before he took a breath and slowly let it out.

Okay.

He started up the staircase, calling out again, "Emily, I'm back," he stepped onto the landing, "where are you?"

Having never been upstairs before he didn't know where her room was. But then he heard her call out from the end of the hall, "down here," and Hotch followed along to the last door on the right side. He saw the camera sitting on the bed, and was about to walk inside when he saw Emily staring at herself in the full length mirror.

"Hey," he said softly as he put his bag on the floor inside the door, "what are you doing?"

Emily turned to look at him over her shoulder, "trying to picture what I'd look like with one breast," she answered in the same tone.

Her answer was honest, but still she regretted it the moment the words passed her lips. It was too soon to throw that stark a reality into his face. Her condition . . . or potential condition . . . was still new to him. And she'd seen the flash of pain on his face right before he stepped into the room.

She should have realized that would upset him.

Hotch walked up behind Emily, wrapping his arms around her body as he pulled her against his chest.

"Shhh," he whispered against her hair, "you don't know what's going to happen so you shouldn't torture yourself with the what ifs, okay?"

As supportive as he was trying to be, mentally he was still adjusting to this situation himself. Though he would stay with her no matter the outcome, these scenarios were something he was still trying to process. And that wasn't one he wanted to imagine unless he absolutely had to.

Her hands moved up to cover his as she tried to give him a smile in the mirror . . . but she couldn't quite manage it.

So instead she squeezed his fingers.

"You're right. It's just that I um," she shook her head slightly as her gaze fell, "well I've spent the last couple weeks doing nothing but thinking about the bad stuff, how much my mom suffered and what she went through," her eyes locked with his as she finished on a whisper, "and I don't want to do that anymore."

Now that she knew how he felt, to continue to wallow in her own misery was wrong. She wasn't alone anymore, she had somebody who loved her, who was going to support her and stay with her.

To waste that opportunity seemed somehow . . . blasphemous.

A faint smile touched Hotch's lips as he nodded, "good," he leaned down to nuzzle her neck as he whispered again, "that's really good."

They stood there for another minute with him holding her before one of his hands slid down to her hip.

"We should do the pictures now," he said gently, "and then I'll get you some ice for your eye and we can go to bed."

He was really dreading taking these pictures. That had been his fear earlier in the night, that she looked like one of the before photos in his case files. And now here he was taking the afters.

The only difference was he'd be keeping these images of her bruised body in a safe rather than a manila file folder.

After Hotch mentioned bed Emily stared at the carpet for a moment, and then she turned around in his arms. She looked up at him as he stared down at her, then he shook his head slightly before he kissed her forehead.

"Not tonight," he said softly as he pulled back to look at her.

Seeing the flash of disappointment that she tried to hide from him, Hotch stroked the back of his hand down her cheek.

"Tomorrow," he whispered as he caressed her skin and her lids fell shut, "too much has happened tonight." He rubbed his other hand down her side, "so I think we should wait."

Her eyes opened again and he gave her a little smile, "after all, we have time, right?"

That was his concern in making love tonight. That it would be thought of in her mind . . . or in his . . . as a desperate act of coupling. That they would be acting out of the fear that she was sick . . . he pushed down the panic that tried to rise up at the thought . . . that she could die, and that they had to do this now because otherwise they couldn't do it at all. It was the wrong way to live their lives.

And he wouldn't destroy a moment as wonderful and important as the first time they made love, by behaving as though it was a talisman to cheat death.

Emily continued to stare up at him . . . for weeks when she thought about her future she'd seen nothing but darkness. But now once again there was a light there. It was perhaps a little dimmer than it had been before, but that was the uncertainty about her test results. It wasn't an uncertainty about him. Because regardless of the results, she had years left . . . four or forty, didn't matter . . . because they were going to be good years.

She was going to be happy.

When that realization came to her, for the first time in nearly a month she smiled for real, with genuine happiness and joy before she leaned up and kissed him. Then she put her head back on his chest and whispered back.

"You're right," she sighed as he hugged her tightly, "we have time."

*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*/*

_Time is too slow for those who wait, too swift for those who fear, too long for those who grieve, too short for those who rejoice, but for those who love . . . time is eternity._

~Henry Van Dyke

* * *

_A/N 2: I started this last October, which is Breast Cancer Awareness month here (perhaps elsewhere as well). And the campaign was everywhere! It was totally saturating my brain and as soon as I saw the 'high risk behavior' prompt and got the idea for Emily to be hiding a secret from everyone that would cause that degree of depression, I just knew that was the secret. I didn't WANT to write another Emily "maybe" cancer story because I already have the giant cancer story, but you can't help how your brain goes. And also, Kate Jackson, who plays Emily's mom, did have breast cancer so it just all fell together in my mind. _

_So this was all done in my head, the first two chapters were up, and the draft for the conclusion was like ¾ done on the page, and then, RIGHT after I posted chapter 2, I mean like the NEXT day, I had my own health scare and this story suddenly completely freaked me out! And that's why it got dropped. At first I couldn't even look at it and then when I knew things were okay (in case you're wondering, I'm fine) I kept trying to go back to it again but mentally, it just wasn't happening. And I don't have cancer of any kind (knock wood that sentence shall remain true for the rest of my days on the planet) but I had to have tests done for my situation and things sort of dragged for follow up and I just wanted nothing to do with this world until I knew everything was completely fine. And I guess I needed a little distance as well because I've looked at it a half a dozen times since the new year and just felt that same sickening feeling of real life fear smashing into fake life drama. Then suddenly this weekend (as I was working on 2 totally unrelated stories) I just had to open this up again. My brain was as insistent as it had been when the idea first came to me last fall. And finally we're finished :) So sorry it took so long, but now you see that sometimes there are good RL reasons why stories just don't get done. I'm just glad that I was able to come back to it again! For awhile I was worried that it was just going to sit there forever._

_There won't be any epilogues here. You can decide for yourself what happens next. Like I said, I already told a cancer story (and will be telling it again) and I wanted this to be quite different so I'm leaving it open ended. They aren't exactly the same people, they don't have the same relationship of already being involved so even in my own mind, just writing this chapter, I didn't sense any real overlap with any scenes in The Hours. Though of course the principle of focusing on the good as you deal with the bad is the same, I tried to be cognizant of language in the other story and not rip off my own stuff ;) _

_I know it ends ambiguously but I also think it ends on a very positive note, and hopefully you agree :) _


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